


i love you, ain't that the worst thing you ever heard?

by LadyAlice101



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Misunderstandings, No Plot, but happy ending cuz y’all know me, inspired by THAT interview, set somewhere vaguely in s8
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-12-17 13:35:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21055271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAlice101/pseuds/LadyAlice101
Summary: “I love her to my very bones,” he’d said.To my very bones.Sansa had known that he loved Daenerys, but this - . . . this is a devotion she hadn’t expected. That she wishes she’d never heard.“You’re an idiot,” Sansa had overheard Arya respond harshly. Sansa had been pressed against the door, listening in to them both, but gods she wishes she hadn’t been. “Get your head out of your arse and talk to her.”“I don’t think she’d appreciate it,” Jon had said, a bitter line to his voice. “Not now. Not when we’re about to march on King’s Landing.”// Sansa overhears a conversation between Jon and Arya and misunderstands what he's admitted.





	i love you, ain't that the worst thing you ever heard?

**Author's Note:**

> hahahahah that interview killed me. that is all.

_“I love her to my very bones,” _he’d said.

_To my very bones. _

Sansa had known that he loved Daenerys, but this - . . . this is a devotion she hadn’t expected. That she wishes she’d never heard.

“_You’re an idiot,_” Sansa had overheard Arya respond harshly. Sansa had been pressed against the door, listening in to them both, but gods she wishes she hadn’t been. “_Get your head out of your arse and talk to her.” _

“_I don’t think she’d appreciate it,” _Jon had said, a bitter line to his voice. “_Not now. Not when we’re about to march on King’s Landing.” _

Of course, Sansa thinks. She doesn’t know Daenerys very well, and while she’s known the foreign Queen to demand the devotion that Jon so obviously feels for her, Sansa thinks it’s probably likely that Daenerys wouldn’t want to be to hear something like that at such a time. Not when it would provide a distraction.

“_You’re an idiot,” _Arya had repeated with exasperation. “_Tell her what you just told me. Trust me, there’s little more she’d prefer to hear right now.” _

“_I don’t want to talk about this anymore,”_ Jon snapped. “_This isn’t a time to be dwelling on my _feelings. _It will only fuck everything up.” _

Sansa had backed away from the door then. She wishes he’d had that attitude when he’d bent the knee initially.

Sansa reaches her bedchamber doors and tries to still her trembling hand enough to unlock it. When she finally pushes inside, she immediately waves away the maids who are busy cleaning up her rooms. As soon as her door shuts behind them, Sansa feels herself start to cry, a deep, heaving cry that makes her shoulders shake and her throat burn. She hasn’t cried like this in years.

Sansa hadn’t known a heart could break like this.

She’d thought that she’d become familiar with all types of heartbreak in the recent years, but . . . this is something else. It claws at her stomach and makes her want to scream and rip her hair out.

To hear that Jon holds such affection for Daenerys, and to hear _Arya _encourage him . . . she feels sick. Her disgust and anger is welling up inside her so viscerally that she can’t keep it in; it’s making her hands tingle and her legs shake and before she even knows it she’s pushed all the work piled on her desk to the ground. Parchment flies everywhere and an inkpot smashes and spills.

That _stupid _man, falling in love with another woman, giving away her _home, _making her feel so small and meaningless and like he never even _loved _her because everything he gave her he’s taken away just as easily.

Sansa catches sight of herself in her looking glass, her red and swollen face, her auburn hair that she’d done up so nicely this morning and the grey dress that she’d painstakingly embroidered with direwolves all with the intention of reminding Jon of where he truly belongs.

Her hair spills down as she harshly tugs at the pins holding it all together, as she pulls at the braids that had taken so long this morning. She tries to pull her dress off as well, but she can’t reach the laces and she ends up spinning around uselessly as she tries to rid herself of the reminder that Jon has so blatantly disregarded their family.

Sansa lets loose a shout of frustration, and in being denied the release of ripping her dress off, she recklessly sweeps her hand over the top of her dressing table. Pots and cups clatter to the floor, some smashing like her inkpot had, and others rolling around, lids popped open and spilling creams and oils everywhere.

It doesn’t make her feel better, instead only worse. Now there’s a huge mess that will have to be cleaned up, and she’s still crying and Jon still loves Daenerys _to his very bones – _

Sansa wipes her face with her palms, trying to calm herself down, then kneels down to try and clean up her mess. She won’t be able to clean it all up, but if she lets anyone see how badly she’s fallen apart she’ll be dreadfully embarrassed, especially considering she’s fairly sure one or two of the handmaidens she has aren’t the most trustworthy.

Eyes blurred with tears she can’t quite stem, Sansa tries to pick the biggest pieces of ceramic from the ground. They’re slippery with a mixture of oil and cream, and yet she’s still surprised when she cuts herself. She hisses at the pain of it, but can only stare at her palm for several seconds before she realizes she needs to actually do something.

Sansa wipes her face again, trying to push her messy hair out of her eyes, and then she stands, gathering the hem of her skirts to press the fabric into her palm. She gasps at the pain of it, but keeps pressing her dress down.

A knock on her door startles her.

She can’t let anyone in. Not when her rooms are a mess and she’s a mess and she’s still crying.

“I’m busy!” She calls out, hoping that whoever it is can’t tell that her voice cracks with the obvious sign she’s been crying.

“Sansa, it’s Jon.”

She glares at the door. “Busy!” she snaps, though it’s punctuated at the end with a sharp gasp as she accidentally presses harder on her palm.

“Sansa, are you alright?” Jon calls out, and she hates out worried he sounds. She hates, hates, _hates _that he has the gall to come here immediately after he said what he said, while he feels what he feels –

“Sansa, please, what happened? Are you alright?”

Sansa doesn’t respond this time, instead turning her attention to her palm that’s still bleeding. Jon is like a puppy: if she ignores him, he’ll go away.

She should have known better.

“_Sansa_,” Jon calls to her. “Please, are you alright? If you don’t answer, I’m coming in.”

“No, _don’t,_” she commands him. “Don’t come in Jon – oh, ow, _ow_!”

A fresh gush of blood weeps from her cut as presses too hard, as she tries to wipe, and then suddenly her door is open and Jon is standing in front of her. One of his hands sweeps into her hair and the other cradles her wounded hand.

“Sansa, who did this?” Jon demands, moving her skirts aside so he can look at her hand. She tries to tug her hand free of his grip, but he holds her steady.

“Tell me who did this,” he repeats harshly, resting his thumb against one end of the cut to see how bad it is. She already knows that it will probably have to be stitched.

“Go away, Jon,” Sansa tells him, trying to use her coldest voice. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

“You need to see the maester,” Jon decides.

“Yes, I know,” Sansa spits, this time successfully ripping her hand from his. “I’ll go myself. Leave, Jon, get out of my rooms.”

“Sansa, don’t be silly, I’ll take you down –“

“I’m silly now, is it?” Sansa snaps, before she can help herself. “I thought I was cold and unrepentant, with ambitions far past my capabilities?”

Jon stills, face draining of colour. “You heard me speaking with Arya?” he whispers, not even denying it.

Sansa scoffs, hands dropping to her side. “Aye, I heard you.”

“You heard me say – “

“That you love –“

“ – to my very bones,” he finishes, voice quiet and vulnerable. He takes a deep breath, then says, “Sansa, I –“

“I don’t want to hear it!” she interrupts, turning from him as his face falls. What, did he expect that she would be _happy _for him? That she would _congratulate _the fact that he’s so blinded with love for that woman that he can’t even see who she really is? “How could you, Jon?”

He sucks in a harsh breath, and when he speaks his voice trembles. “I – I’m sorry, Sansa. I understand that it must disgust you.”

She scoffs again. She hadn’t intended to let loose on him like this, hadn’t wanted to pull their relationship even further apart because she’s – she’s _jealous, _but he’s come when she’s too emotional. She hasn’t had enough time to process, to put her mask back in place.

When he speaks again his voice is so broken and _upset _that she feels a twinge of guilt, but it disappears the more he speaks. “I didn’t mean for this to happen. It just – we spent so much time together, and I just . . . I came to realize that I wouldn’t want to spend a moment living knowing I couldn’t have our evenings by the fire, without our talks where I can bare my soul without any fear - . . . and I just _knew.” _

“Stop, stop it,” Sansa spits. _She’s _supposed to be the one that does that with him. Before he’d left, _Sansa _was the one he spent his evenings with, the one he told his secrets to, the one he sought for advice. How nice it is to know he replaced her so easily. “Gods, Jon, I don’t want to hear it!”

“I’m sorry,” he repeats as a whisper. “I just thought you should know. I won’t mention it again, I swear. And I’ll – I’ll leave, if you want. Of course, if that’s what you want.”

She goes too long without answering, wondering whether that’s what she truly desires. She wouldn’t want to spend her days watching Jon and Daenerys together, but she doesn’t want him to _leave. _She would miss him too much, her very soul aching for his.

“I just – I want you to know that I would never hurt you,” he continues, and Sansa almost scoffs again. “I would never force myself on you, and I won’t ever speak of my feelings again. I can – it may take some time, but perhaps I will eventually be able to go back to feeling for you as a brother should, and not –“

“Wait.”

Sansa takes a deep breath, her mind whirring. Why would he say that, if she’d heard him talking about Daenerys? It doesn’t make any sense, and suddenly she realizes that she never actually _heard _him say either Sansa’s name when saying _she’s cold and without mercy, and she desires something that she shouldn’t, _or heard him say Daenerys’ name when he’d said _­_\- . . .

When he’d said . . .

“You were talking about me?” Sansa asks, turning to him slowly, taking no mind to her bloody hand or the mess she stands in the midst of. He looks just as confused as she feels. “When you said - . . .”

“Who did you think I was talking about?” he asks cautiously. He takes a tentative step towards her, and where only moments ago she would have stepped back, she now stays firmly in place, hope starting to blossom in her chest.

“I thought that you – when you said cold, I thought you meant me, and when you said you loved her, I thought that you meant –“

“Daenerys,” Jon finishes, shaking his head as he does so. “No, Sansa, _no. _It was the opposite way. _She _is who I think is manipulative, and you’re who I - . . .”

Sansa steps towards him this time, tilting her chin up in expectation. “Who you?” she prompts.

He pauses for several long moments, looking over her face. He must decide that she wants to hear what he has to say, because he speaks it is with determination. “Who I love. Who I’m in love with.” He stops again, and rocks on his feet, his previous determination disappearing. “Does this still disgust you?”

Sansa shakes her head quickly, stepping towards him again. He’s within arms distance now, and he reaches out to tuck some of her loose hair behind her ear, thumb brushing over her cheekbone. It comes away red with blood, and Sansa realizes she must have smeared blood on her face at some point.

“Who did this, Sansa? Who came in here?”

“No, I –“ She swallows, then abruptly tucks herself into his arms, muffling her voice in his skin as she hooks her arms around his neck and breathes in the scent of him. “I did this. When I thought you were talking about Daenerys.”

His hands come to hesitantly rest on her waist, his touch light and gentle as it always is.

“But you meant me?” she asks again, just to be sure. “That you love, to your bones?”

“Aye,” he confirms, voice gruff. “To my bones, to my heart, to my soul.”

Her eyes fall closed as a smile pulls up her lips. For how much it felt like her heart was cracking in two earlier, now it feels fit to burst.

“I love you too,” Sansa whispers, tightening her grip around his neck.

His chest shifts beneath her as he inhales deeply, fingers tightening in her skirts.

“We should –“ His voice scratches and chokes, and he clears his throat. “We should get you to the maester. For your hand.”

Sansa pulls back from him slightly, just enough that she can look into his eyes.

“Kiss me first, would you?” she asks, voice breathless with the desire she so keenly feels.

“Nothing would bring me more joy, my lady,” Jon whispers, then lowers his mouth to hers.

_To my very bones. _

Against his lips, Sansa smiles.


End file.
